They call you black because

Sometimes words flow out of me, and this newsletter writes itself. Sometimes, like today, I’ve stared at the blinking cursor on the white screen for 45 minutes and I know the words are stuck because I am stuck.

I tend to spend weekends fretting about how much I am not getting done. Last weekend I reorganized drawers and closets until I felt like my apartment felt lighter, freer, closer to ~sparking joy~.

And then I spent Sunday feeling guilty about all the emails I didn’t get to, the mail I haven’t yet sent, the messages to which I haven’t replied.

This weekend I spent time I needed to spend on people, having the conversations I have avoided having. Which meant I didn’t do as much work as I could have done.